


The Scientist

by StarScribbler (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Confusion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson Needs A Hug, M/M, Manipulative Sherlock, Omorashi, Scat, Sherlock Makes Mistakes, Stomach Ache, Sweet Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-06 01:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13401072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/StarScribbler
Summary: Sherlock was just guessing, at numbers and figures, pulling the puzzles apart. Questions of science, science and progress, did not speak as loud as his heart.Would John tell him he loved him? Come back and haunt him?Could they go back to the start?





	1. Come Up to Meet You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fireofangels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireofangels/gifts).



> Sooo this is my first Sherlock fanfic, and it's for FireofAngels as a thank you for all of your amazing fanfics :) 
> 
> Me: And I totally own Sherlock and Coldplay. Absolutely. 100%. They're mine.
> 
> Me to me: Haha, you wish!

“Sherlock, erm, did you drug this?” John groaned as flopped down on to the couch.

“Hmm?” the detective questioned, looking up from his experiment. He caught sight of the tea cup on the coffee table. “Oh. Ummm . . . I don't  _ think  _ so.”

“You don’t think so,” John repeated incredulously.Why was it so difficult for Sherlock to just take responsibility for his own actions?

Said detective was currently peering into a microscope and blindly pouring the contents of one beaker into another. “If I did, my brain deleted it,” he explained dismissively.

So basically Sherlock’s brain didn’t think John's life was important? Ah! Okay. That bugger.

“Why?” Sherlock asked absentmindedly.

“Cause I feel like hell - that’s why.”

“A pit of evil run by demons? Sounds about right.”

John laughed for the first time that night, temporarily forgetting about his apparent stomach flu.

“No,” he clarified, “I feel like I’m gonna vomit.”

“Probably the result of failure to exercise necessary safety precautions at the clinic,” Sherlock suggested, looking up this time. “You’re clumsy with your tools; you cough into your hands and forget to wash them; you don't wash your sheets frequently; you don’t wash  _ yourself _ frequently, in fact. On top of that, you eat like garbage. Your standards are distatefully low. It’s no wonder you’ve gotten yourself sick. You -”

“That’s enough, Sherlock.” John has tried to say it forcefully, but it ended up sounding like a feeble request. “I’m -” Uh, what was he supposed to say? “I’m going to bed.” 

He would have liked to march fiercely up the stairs, but he really didn’t have the energy to do anything more than trudge. Oh gees, what had just happened? Did Sherlock really mean all those things? Did he think John was some slob of a pig? Was that  _ all _ he was? Not the man who cleaned the flat or bought Sherlock dinner or saved his bloody life? Just a disgusting burden for The detective to deal with?

“Perhaps take some medicine and drink lots of water,” Sherlock suggested weakly. He actually looked slightly guilty.

John struggled to suppress an exasperated groan. “Yeah, I’m a doctor. I know that you git,” he called down from the stairs.

Truth be told, he wasn’t really that mad at Sherlock - unless, of course, the bugger actually had poisoned him, then he was furious - he was simply in no small amount of pain. He was nearly positive that he had the stomach flu, and on top of that, he had just found out that his flatmate thought he was disgusting. John tried not to care. He failed miserably. Cold tears began running down his steamy face and melting into his pillow.  
  
-

And of course there had to be a case the next morning!

“And why do you think I should go?” John yawned as he buried his face deeper into his down pillow, making sure that Sherlock couldn't smell his breath.

“To distract you from your pain.”  _ Obviously _

“Yeah, Sherlock, running around doesn’t make most people feel better,” John stated cradling his lower abdomen.

The detective stared back at him owlishly.

_ Of course _ Sherlock wouldn’t understand. What was the bloody matter with that man!? Chances were he was the one who had drugged John in the first place. And now “Come to work with me, John! It will help.” No it won’t Sherlock - not at all.

“Please,” Sherlock pleaded.

_ Aaaand  _ John couldn't say no to that. He rolled halfway over and opened one of his tired eyes to glance at Sherlock.

“Okay,” he agreed. He didn’t really understand why Sherlock wanted him to come. Sherlock had said before -  _ he was disgusting _ . 

“Much appreciated, John. I’m sure it will lift your spirits!” Sherlock reassured him.  _ Okay, that smile was so cute. _

Spirits, No. Temperature? Undoubtedly.

“Breakfast will be ready in twenty minutes, John. Do you require any other assistance?” This was probably the first time in his life that Sherlock had offered help to someone.

_ What?  _ Sherlock didn’t even eat breakfast. “Umm, why are you . . . why . . . what are you doing, Sherlock?”

The detective stared as though the answer was obvious - “Helping you. You're ill.”

That was actually really sweet. “I don’t think so, but thanks,” John replied.

Obviously Sherlock had expected a different answer. “Are you sure?” he double checked, “no help getting out of bed, or bathing, or shaving?”

John sat up. Was he really so dirty that Sherlock felt the need to clean him himself? “I’ll be fine, Sherlock, Thank you.”

-

Half and hour, a hearty breakfast, and lots of medicine later, John and Sherlock found themselves sitting in the back of a cab and heading out to the country.

John felt hot and disgusting, and he wished he could vomit just to get the pain over with. He tried without success to find a comfortable position leaning against the windowsill. He wanted home. He wanted to be wrapped up in his warm comfy bed. With Sherlock.  _ What?  _ Actually, yeah. Sherlock. Sherlock sounded good.

But he couldn’t have Sherlock. Because Sherlock didn’t like him. Sherlock was only using him, John reminded himself, to pay half the rent, to offer medical knowledge when necessary, and to buy food. Sherlock had chosen John simply because the detective knew that the doctor would fall hopelessly in love with him and give in to Sherlock’s every whim.

John groaned and wriggled in his seat. His stomach bubbled as though it were filled with molten lava. Suddenly, he heard a quiet click and looked up to see Sherlock scooting himself over to the middle seat.

John was too preoccupied to deduce why exactly Sherlock had done so - perhaps to avoid the sun or - 

A gentle arm reached around John’s left shoulder and pulled him closer, until the doctor's head was resting on the detectives soft shoulder. “This is no doubt more comfortable,” his deep voice rumbled sweetly.

Yeah, overall it was more comfortable. John’s head, neck, and back no longer had to endure awkward straining and hard surfaces. However, John spent the whole time worrying that, with his head this close to Sherlock’s nose, maybe the detective could smell his hair. Granted, he had washed it this morning, but Sherlock had said himself that John wasn't good enough at showering.

These insecurities didn't prevent John from falling fast asleep.

-

After an hour or so, the cab arrived at its destination.

John woke with a start  Sherlock payed the cabbie and offered John a hand to pull him out of the vehicle. John’s stomach began cramping intensely as soon as gravity pulled down on its contents. He bent over slightly and clenched onto it. At least they had reached the crime scene - an abandoned house in the middle of a lonely field. Oh yeah, and there was probably probably a dead body in there.

His hands still wrapped around his midsection, John crept slowly after Sherlock.  _ Please let this be a quick one! _ They entered the small house through the front door and quickly found themselves ascending a narrow carpeted staircase.

The top floor consisted in only one room. Oh. It was probably the attic. Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, and a few no-name officers surrounded the dead body lying on the hardwood floor. Sherlock strode right up to Lestrade and began discussing the details of the crime.

On a normal day, John would have been paying attention to all this stuff. Now, however, he was standing a couple feet behind Sherlock and wallowing in his pain, which seemed to be sinking lower and lower into his stomach When the detective moved to crouch by the carcass of the middle-aged woman, the doctor once again stood a few feet off.

Again ordinarily, John would have taken advantage of this opportunity to admire Sherlock’s brilliant deductions spewed forth in that rich baritone voice, or the way his thin frame twisted and pulled at his costly clothing, or how well his tight little bum filled out the back of his trousers. However, John found himself distracted by the twisting, shifting sensation squirming through his own buttocks.

  
There was a lot less burning now and more, uh, tension wiggling its way to John’s rectum.   _ Oh shite! _ He had to take a dump. Badly.


	2. Tell You I Need You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which shit goes down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoy!

John pressed his legs together tightly and tried to squeeze his rectum shut. As Sherlock continued with his deductions, John frantically looked for excuses to squat, which alleviated some of the pressure.

What the hell was he supposed to do!? Here they were in some random house in the bloody middle of nowhere, and John was sure he was going to have explosive diarrhea any second. He couldn't use the bathroom, because this was a crime scene, and touching anything might destroy evidence. Maybe outside? No, cars were passing by, and they might see him; and even if they didn't, Lestrade and Donovan and Anderson and Sherlock would surely notice he was gone.

Ugh! John twisted his legs awkwardly in some pathetic attempt to do . . .  _ something _ ? It didn't really matter, though. He would eventually lose control and shit himself, and Sherlock would talk about how disgusting and inhumane John was. Maybe Sherlock would leave John. The doctor blinked back tears at the thought of it.

After half an hour of shifting and clenching and sweating, John felt his anus spreading apart.  _ OhGodOhGodOhGod.  _ This could not be happening! John involuntarily bent over. NoNoNoNoNo!  _ Hewasgoingtoshithimselfhewasgoingtoshithimself!!! _

_ BLORT!  _ A large mess exploded into John’s pants. Followed by another. And another. All eyes turned towards John as the telltale odor and sound of diarrhea swamped the room.  _ Ohgodhewaspoopinghispants! _ John had never been so humiliated in his entire life. He felt salty tears running down his cheeks, and soon he was bawling his eyes out. John’s pants continued to expand as his bowels contorted and exploded, and somewhere along the line, John lost control and bloody pissed himself too.

“John!” The doctor heard someone exclaim his name in a concerned manner, but he dared not look up. John curled in on his pathetic form as though he could somehow make it disappear.

In an instant warm arms enveloped John and soft lips pressed against his ear murmuring, “Shhhhh, John. It’s okay. I got you.”

John pressed his face into Sherlock’s belstaff and inhaled his warm, familiar scent. _Home._ He exhaled a teary sob into the blue cashmere scarf and let his weight fall upon Sherlock, ignoring the urine and shit trickling down his legs and losing himself to gentle rubs and sweet murmurs and slow rocking. It seemed so easy to just close his eyes and pretend that things were as they used to be - to pretend that Sherlock still . . . _loved_ _him_? If Sherlock was going to kick him out after this, John sure as hell was going to take advantage of this hug.

The room was silent as the flatmates slowly rocked back and forth, with only Sherlock’s back in view. After John’s excretions stopped and his sobs slowed, Sherlock lifted his cheek off the sandy hair and instructed Lestrade to call a cab.

Within a minute, the DI was pocketing his phone. “It’ll be here in half an hour, mate.”

“Thank you, Garret. We’ll be back shortly,” Sherlock replied as he gently led John towards the stairs.

“This is a crime scene, freak! You’re not allowed to go into any of the other rooms,” Donovan slurred.

“Greyson, would you and your security team excuse John and me for a couple minutes.”

“Sorry, Sherlock, we’re not allowed to leave non-officers alone at crime scenes.”

Sherlock bit his lip and glanced down at John, who was still huddled inside his coat. “John, I’m concerned you might get a rash,” he whispered, “May I . . .  _ help _ you?”

John tried to think of the best response - he tried to think of  _ any _ response actually, but his mind was drawing a blank. Yes? No?  _ Yes _ he felt himself nodding into Sherlock’s chest.  _ Sherlock would take care of him. _

“Thank you, John. Would you prefer to stay here or go outside?” The detective’s fingers ghosted through his tawny hair.

“I’m really sorry, mate,” Lestrade interjected, “but you, erm, you - you can’t go downstairs in this state, because liquid other than water -” he trailed off apologetically. “We’ll turn around if you want - Do you want water?” He held out a bottle.

“Ta.” Sherlock separated himself from John for a second to grab the water. He then turned his flatmate away from the others and whispered that everything would be okay. John desperately hoped he was right.

As the Scotland Yard turned the other way awkwardly, Sherlock pulled off his friend’s jumper and reached to undo his brown leather belt. Ordinarily the John could have done it himself, but he was miserable and knackered. He felt Sherlock tug his trousers down an inch or two before untucking and removing his shirt and undershirt, the backs of which were both covered in John’s mess. Then, to the doctor’s surprise, Sherlock removed his own wool coat and placed it loosely around his friend’s shoulders. He made quick work of removing John’s trousers and placing them under him, between his feet. Carefully Sherlock slid down his tight red utterly soiled pants and assisted their owner in stepping out of them.

“Here you go,” the detective uttered as he poured water on to his flatmate’s shirts. Then he started wiping John’s arse, legs, and genitals in a gentle yet efficient manner. “I actually have spare pants-” He reached into the inside pocket of his belstaff and produced a pair of briefs covered in cartoon bees. Nothing about the pants surprised John, for his years of doing Sherlock’s laundry had familiarized him with his wide selection of pants - the black skin-tight trunks, the lacy briefs, the silk thongs, and the briefs covered in bees - and honestly, John was thankful he hadn’t pulled out a tiny thong.

The doctor placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders to steady himself as the detective pulled up the clean briefs. “There you go,” Sherlock murmured, buttoning the coat that swamped Watson’s tiny figure.

Then he smiled reassuringly at John and moved cl- ohmygoodnessitwasgoingtohappenhisheartbeatwassofrantichecouldnotthinkandhecouldnotmo-  _ and brushed a feathery kiss along his cheek _ . The doctor froze momentarily. Then a sweet watery smile broke out across his face, and he took a step forward to wrap his arms around Sherlock. “Thank you, love,” John whispered, the pet name slipping out without notice.

Sherlock remained silent, but if his smile meant anything, he was quite flattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come! :) Comment below and let me know what you want to happen in future chapters! Thanks, loves!!!


	3. I Was Just Guessing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But of course, when you're living with Sherlock, things don't just happen accidently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope there aren't any typos, but if there are, wanna let me know please? :]

_ How could riding a cab be so exhilarating?  _ He’d done it hundreds of time before. But this time, he could slide into the middle seat and just - just love. Just love Sherlock. And thank whatever God was surely out there that everything was okay.  _ It was so weird and magical how “okay” could become synonymous with perfect. _

A sweet rumble broke the silence.

“John, I ha- there’s something I need to tell you.”

The doctor lifted his head from Sherlock’s shoulder and hummed inquisitively. To his surprise, the detective looked uncomfortable. When the heck did Sherlock  _ ever _ look uncomfortable!?!? ( _ Pssst  _ **_sexxxxx._ ** _ The answer was ‘when someone asked him about sex’)  _ John wasn't sure if he should put an arm around him and gently ask, “What it is, Sherl?” or play the opposite card and whisper sadly, “You think I’m disgusting, so you’re going to leave me now, aren’t you?”

Luckily, Sherlock made the decision for him.

“I did something wrong, John, and I’m really sorry. I wasn’t thinking at all, and I really didn’t mean for it to happen, and I totally regret it, and I don’t want to tell you at all, but I think that I shou-”

“Sherlock, shhh,” John gently brought his ramblings to a holt. “It’s okay. What did you do?” John felt his flatmate take a deep breath.

“I - I drugged your coffee.”

“Last night? . . . Sherlooock,” the doctor groaned as anger built up inside him.  _ Just when everything was looking okay!!! _ “Is that why I shit my pants!?!? What the bloody hell were you trying to accomplish - making me look weak and dumb? Well, you did a bloody fantastic job, you shit! I hope you’re pleased with yourself!”

“No, John, I’m not! I know I messed up horribly, but I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” Sherlock insisted.

“Well, you certainly did, Sherlock!” John snapped, “Just like you always do when you act like a selfish brat and go about fulfilling your every fantasy regardless of what anyone else may be feeling.”

_ How could Sherlock do that to him?  _ How!?!? They were supposed to be friends, and it didn't even matter if Sherlock had been grossed out by John lately - friends don't just turn on each other like that.

“Obviously you're not my friend,” John concluded. He didn't know how much the words would hurt until they left his mouth.  _ That was it. Now they weren't friends, let alone a couple. _ “You’re just a manipulator.” The doctor stared ahead blankly, oblivious to the look of remorse pouring over Sherlock’s porcelain face.

“I  _ am  _ a manipulator, John,” Sherlock admitted quietly, simply. “But I didn't do it to humiliate you. I wanted to show you that I could take care of you.”

“Sherlock! You bloody drugged me. How the hell is that taking care of me!?!?!” John growled emphatically.

Sherlock froze and furrowed his brow. “I wasn’t thinking about that. I - I guess I was more focused on how efficiently I would clean you up. And how comforting I could be.”

John slumped back against the car seat. “Why did you even want to do all that in the first place?”

“I wanted an opportunity to demonstrate my affection for me,” he replied plainly.

_ How badly John wanted to accept his words _ . “No, Sherlock. That’s not sufficient. That’s not all. You are a bloody genius! You damn well  _ knew _ that that's not how you show affection for someone, and you wouldn't have forgotten that unless you were focused on something else. So. What. Was. It?”

“I thought you would look sexually appealing squirming around like that,” Sherlock whispered in a voice so low John had to stoop to hear it.

_ Bloody Christ, Sherlock! _ That was the absolute last answer John was expecting. “Okay.”  _ How was he supposed to respond to that?!?  _ “I mean, that’s actually rather flattering - that a stuck up snob like yourself would think that I’m sexy. That doesn't change that what you did was wrong.”

“ _ John _ , please forgive me,” Sherlock pleaded deliberately, his eyes glistening like nebulae. “I  _ care _ about you, and I  _ want  _ you. I made those mistakes  _ because  _ of how fucking badly I want you - how badly I’ve always wanted you.”

John wanted to give in.  _ But Sherlock was  _ \- amazing, selfish, stupid, lazy, strong, brilliant, tireless, fearless -  _ a bit not good.  _ The doctor let out a shaky sigh. He had wanted to be with Sherlock forever, but evidently Sherlock was too much of a bugger. And so good morals and common sense forbade John from doing so. It was as simple as that.  _ As simple and impossible as that. _

“Sherlock,” John replied steadily, “A lot of rapists find their victims attractive. Some of them even want to stay with their victims. But rape is rape, a-”

“John, I consider it utterly ridiculous to compare sneaking laxatives in your coffee to rape,” Sherlock snapped.

_ Moodiness was one of Sherlock’s defence mechanisms.  _ John wanted to envelop him in a hug and never let him go, but- “You  _ drugged _ me so that you could later use me for your sexual pleasure. That is pretty  _ damn _ close to rape if you ask me!”

Sherlock’s eyes were brimming with tears, which he tried vainly to blink away.  _ But John wasn't finished yet. _ The detective braced himself for what would come next:

“You gave me a drug, so that you could expose and touch me in public!  _ What part of that do you not think is rape!?!?”  _ John shouted, “What part of that is so bloody difficult for you to understand that you dare call it ridiculous!?!?”

Sherlock wasn't sure if John had stopped shouting, or if he was simply unable to hear anymore. He curled up against the window involuntarily and started to sob silently without the slightest notion of how he could still be alive while bearing this much pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all liking it so far? I am :)  
> Please like and comment. I want to hear from y'all! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!!! Don't forget to like and comment :) I do most requests too, so just leave 'em in the comments. Love ya!


End file.
